Somehow or another, my husband found out that I’m a bloggist and has been trying for quite some time to get his stories onto my blog.
He pushed one story for a while about the time he was running along the road and a car full of rather large people pulled along side him, basically pinching off any escape route other than turning around and running the other way, and asked him directions on how to get to the park that they would have been at had they driven six seconds longer up the road.
So obviously I told him very gently that, despite his story being very funny and amusing to us, if I were to publish it, my loyal reader(s) would, upon letting his story touch their eyes, “unlike” everything about me on Facebook, unsubscribe their email from following me on bloglovin, toss a brick in the air to land on their head to erase all memory of my past blog posts, and send their computer up in flames.
But last week he came to me with another story. As he was telling it, I mentioned that it may just be blog-worthy, and I started writing it down. And just like a pampered feline, as soon as I revealed interest, he wanted nothing to do with my blog or even finishing the story.
I guess it shows how much I liked this story that even though my hub wouldn’t finish it, and probably won’t feel special about it being on the World Wide Web, I’m still sharing it!
As I wasn’t told the whole story by the kittenish hub, some parts have had to be speculated by yours truly.
It started when my husband took our toddler to the botanical gardens on a hot and sunny weekend afternoon. Our toddler enjoys spending his life climbing up and down stairs and would do so for hours if allowed, and this is exactly what he was doing before he spotted a young woman dressed as a fairy. Deciding the stairs could wait, he sauntered over to her.
But this wasn’t any ordinary fairy.
This fairy, despite her dragonfly wings and blue skin, knew not of pixie dust nor the granting of children’s wishes.
The only pixie dust this fairy had was gas from all the beer she drank the night before, and the only wish she granted was her own that your kid get the F out of her way so she could finish her FU€$ING photo shoot.
“Can you get your kid!” the fairy would bark as anyone under four foot entered her magical realm, visibly not thrilled by the parents snapping pictures of her with their kid like she were some sort of freebie Santa Clause.
But our son, knowing nothing of “personal space” especially not for people with a.) dogs b.) wheelchairs or c.) wings, was in her grill faster than you can say, Ihatechildren!
My husband, the armchair sociologist, decided to sit back and watch the scene unfold.
The fairy growled, her tiny, rapid-beating heart remaining unsoftened by the baby-tooth smile. Seeing her face remained as hard as the rock she sat upon, the little guy smiled bigger, cocked his arm and waved, squealing “Hi!” over and over.
“Beat it, kid,” she said, gesturing for her photographer to take five and lighting up a cigarette.
“Hi!” my son reiterated, having limited access to many other words in his one and a half years existence.
The photographer tilted his camera and scrolled through the pictures he’d taken so far, reporting to the fairy that he’d accidentally misremembered to, well, take the lens cap off entirely, and they’d have to start all over.
“Hi!” my son said, tugging at the fairy’s wing.
“That’s it!” the fairy bellowed, drops of blue make-up stained sweat showering down her face. “Come with me you little pipsqueak!”
With that, she scooped up my son, stuffed him under her lanky arm, and flitted off, intending to punish him by way of the worst punishment known to toddler kind– errand-running.
The telling of events from here on out have had to be pieced together from eye-witness accounts as my husband, who has no fairy wings and was thusly unable to fly, was not able to follow our son to his impending doom.
It so happened the fairy had some books to return that day, and, employing the free labor of my son, he pushed them all through the return slot for the librarians to sort back into their mysterious Dewey decibel system.
Even though this fairy was not-so-fond of children, most of her book returns that day had titles like, “Baby Signs for Mealtime” and “The Big Blue Truck,” and at least one of the books had some cereal crusted on the cover.
When the little guy finished pushing all those board books through the slot, a giant, bespectacled, hairy-nostriled, half-man, half-wildebeest shuffled forward and snatched up the books in his claws.
My son retracted his hands, knowing instinctively that this wildebeest, when provoked, would singe all the knuckle hair off anyone in a ten-foot radius with his fiery bad breath.
“Uck!” cried the wildebeest after picking up the aforementioned cereal-stained reading material. “I am going to thoroughly be washing my hands after this.”
The fairy pounded her cigarette out on the desk (yes, she’d been smoking the whole time in the library, an act welcomed by the wildebeest and his colleagues in their ongoing attempts ward off pink-lunged little children) and gasped. “Listen YOU,” she said. “Don’t go acting like I used a tampon or something as a bookmark and left it in there. Your board books are, as a general rule, disgusting, so don’t act like a little oatmeal on the cover is gonna give you SYPHILIS.”
The wildebeest growled and turned back into his layer.
And you wouldn’t think this to be the case knowing the strong distaste the fairy had for children, but she selected a few more board books, probably to use in lieu of paper towel, toilet paper and tampons, and set them on the desk to be checked out.
The wildebeest and his cohorts stood behind the counter, making no moves to help her check out, still mourning, no doubt, the lost purity of their hands.
After about two minutes of being ignored (twenty years in toddler-time, fifty years in fairy-time), the fairy spoke up.
“A little help here.”
A librarian peered over the rim of her glasses, her face, which by the way appeared to have no knowledge of that big star called the Sun, contorted into one point at the top of her forehead like a tent being raised, as if she’d just sucked on an old lemon.
“We’re going to have to charge you a cleaning fee for this,” Tent-Face said, producing the infamous cereal-crusted book.
The fairy huffed and grabbed the book, saying that wouldn’t be necessary, she’d save them the STD’s and clean it herself.
Meanwhile, our little poor son stood at the doors banging his balled up fists against the glass, unable to take much more of this torture.
“Let’s go!” the fairy said, floating with toes pointed a good two feet off the ground as she tended to do when agitated. She grabbed my son once again and, flying back over the botanical gardens, dropped him from the height of two hundred feet, for that was as close as she was willing to get to the librarian-infested earth at that time, and right into my husband’s relieved arms.